


The Darkest Hour

by TheArchimedesComplex



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Medigun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1766410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchimedesComplex/pseuds/TheArchimedesComplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When faced with an impossible ultimatum, Medic has no choice but to find an impossible solution...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You have failed!” The administrator could hardly disguise the scorn in her voice as she spat over the speakers.

_Natürlich!_

BLU Medic gritted his teeth. He couldn’t see why she seemed so shocked; after all, the Builders League United team had systematically lost every hold they’d had on the map over the last month! What made her think today would be any exception? He scowled at the loudspeakers and turned his attention back to the patient at hand.

The young Scout he was knelt by let out a long, harrowing moan. A shot from the enemy sniper had pierced his bicep, a through-and-though it seemed, leaving a large bloody crater that had downed the boy. It could have been worse, but the amount of blood pouring from the wound gave them both very little time to act.

"Move your fingers." He barked over the fading echos of gunfire, and reaching into his utility belt for a tourniquet. The Scout grunted with effort.

"Like this?" 

The hand was lifeless. Medic couldn't even detect a twitch. With a bad feeling plaguing his gut he wiped his hand over the wound, and the findings confirmed his suspicion. The blood had concealed the true magnitude of the wound; the shot had shattered bone and torn a hole so wide through the arm that it appeared to be attached by nothing more than a few useless, gristly strands of muscle and skin. 

There was no chance in hell he could save the arm. And considering they were already in hell, the odds of him simply surviving were looking shoddier by the second. There wasn't a moment to waste.

“Hold still,” he muttered, quickly looping the tourniquet round what was salvageable of the bloody limb. The messy pulp of the wound eventually stopped haemorrhaging, but when Medic unclipped the bonesaw up from his holster the young mans eyes bulged with fear, and he writhed under his grip.

“Doc, what are you-“

“Zhe more you move, zhe more zhis vill hurt.” He said curtly. His bedside manor never had been much good, and being stranded out on the front line in the thick of it held no exception to his demeanour. Civility was just another luxury that he, and his dwindling number of patients, couldn’t afford.

Before the Scout could start to protest again he swiped the bonesaw clean through the dangling sinew.

“My arm!” He yelled in horror. “I’ve had that arm my whole life you psycho! What have you done?!”

_Oh Vunderbar, a screamer. Just vhat ve need._ If the RED’s hadn’t figured out they were a down a man before, they certainly would have now. 

Swearing, crying, even praying was beginning to build up a rapport in response to his work. Not that any of it deterred him, of course. He was rather more concerned with saving their _godverdammt lives_ to take heed of their insults _._

“Keep quiet." Medic growled, fully aware that the end of battle announcement did not necessarily curb the enemies enthusiasm to slaughter them on sight.

He shot a cautious look out from the cover he had found the Scout sprawled behind and nearly sighed with dismay.

The front line was a total mess. Whatever tactics the BLU’s had mustered prior to their inevitable defeat had once again only contributed to their ... inevitable defeat. If their territory wasn’t on fire it was debris, if it wasn’t debris it was dust, and if it wasn’t dust then it had probably been shot at so often it had just given up hope of retaining any kind of form and disintegrated entirely.

But for all of the chaos, he couldn’t see a single flash of red. They had their chance.

He wasted no time dragging the youth to his feet and hauling him back towards their base. He didn’t even give the young man a chance to pick up his severed limb.  

“Doc, you gotta let me get my arm!" The Scout pleaded. "I need that arm! It’s my right arm, my _batting_ arm!”

“Nein! I must get you zhe infirmary before you bleed out. Zhe tourniquet will only hold for-“

“Prepare for Sudden Death.” Interrupted the Administrator, stopping Medic dead in his tracks.   


_Zhey cannot be serious!_ Sudden Death was reserved for stalemates, but he knew for a fact that the last control point had been captured... no, _dominated_ by the RED’s not too long before. Even so, he was sure he'd heard a slight snicker in the sultry tone delivering them their death warrant. 

God he despised her. Allowing the winning team to hunt down and kill every remaining BLU on the field even after they’d lost? That was just ... overkill!

A little voice in the back of his mind snorted with laughter and chided him.

_Overkill? Oh please! As if such a concept exists in zhis_ _Höllenloch!_

“Doc, please-“ Scout begged pathetically, trying pathetically to pull away from Medics grip and head back out into the field. Clearly, he hadn't just heard the announcement for the killing-spree-free-for-all about to take place. 

“No time!” Medic barked, wrenching the snivelling Scout away from the front line and pelting back through what was left of their territory.

Sudden Death had a tendency to bring out the much more gruesome side of the teams. I t always made such a mess that inevitably  _he_  had to clean up, so he knew first hand what the RED's were capable of when they were given the go-ahead to let off some steam .  He wasn’t getting caught in that fight, no sir, not with this _dummkopf_ in tow.

They scurried back through the groves and ditches of BLU land as quickly as they could manage, but even with Medic leading him forward Scout stumbled behind him breathlessly .“Doc I can’t... I can’t run any more.” Gasped the Scout, the tied off stump of his arm flapping uselessly behind him like a dead fish.

“It vas your arm zhat you lost, not your legs! Now Move! Schnell!” 

Unfortunately he already knew that no matter how many times he ‘Schnelled’ the youth, it couldn't possibly get them away from the enemy team any quicker, and the volley of war cries rising from behind them were getting louder by the second.

_Typical._ He scowled, and skidded down the side of a burned out, blackened embankment.

Funny, he couldn’t recall ever noticing such a large, crater like hole in their land bef-

“Scheisse!” He hissed, grinding his boot into the dirt and scrambling back up the side. He knew he wasn’t imagining things. That the smouldering pit really was a new addition to their map! “Zheir Demo has made it passed our defence!”

“Yeah... I remember... saw him just as I got pinned... yeah... big fella, eyepatch...” Scout was warbling.

Confused, pale, weak, and  that was just this Scout on a good day. But taking the trauma into account, it seemed likely that he only had only a matter of minutes before he went into full-blown shock.

If they could make it across the main route they’d have a clear run for the base, but there was an enemy Demo lurking somewhere behind their line with a variety of explosives at hand to blow them to kingdom come. And what did he have to combat such an exotic range of bombs? A saw, a couple of tourniquets, a few bandages, gauze, a half broken pen somewhere in his back pocket, and a delirious, exhausted, one armed Scout. Funnily enough, he didn’t fancy their odds.

The tunnels were their only option. Getting to them would take longer, but he reasoned they’d have a better chance of getting there alive. He launched Scout round and made for the detour.

“Eyepatch... just like a pirate... I’d make a good pirate... cos I’d look great with an eyepatch.”

Was he giggling?

Delirium or not, _that_ was the last straw. 

“If you do not run faster I svear I vill give you good reason to vear a damn eyepatch!” He threatened.

The next moment was a blur. Through his yelling he had forgotten to check the route ahead and had slammed head first into a very large, very hard, very blue object. He’d have recovered fast enough, had the Scout not ploughed into the back of him and knocked them both sprawling to the ground.

“Doktor!” Through the thick, booming Russian tang of the word, the mystery of the big, hard blue object resolved itself. The Heavy Weapons Expert towered over them and offered Medic one enormous hand. “Is sudden death! Doktor should not be here.” 

“You don’t say?”  He replied dryly, and with a newly acquired throb knocking at his temple he took Heavy’s hand. Once on his feet he noticed Heavy's body was littered with scratches, a particularly grizzly one of which had streaked right across his massive jaw. No doubt they were from similar fragments of shrapnel to the protruding just over his eye. 

He hadn’t thought it was possible for the bulky Russian brute to look any more menacing than he normally did. He'd been wrong.

“RED have breached first defence." He snarled. "Is no good to go back to front.” He was empty handed. A Heavy Weapons Expert without a weapon, yet another useless armament to add to his arsenal.

“I am avare, Heavy. But zhe main route is compromised. Zhe only safe option is to head for zhe tunnels.“

“Nyet, is too open.” Came the blunt response.

“Zhe alternative is not an option, zhe Demoman is in our perimeter.”

“Demoman I can take, Sniper out in open? Nyet. We go back through middle ground.” He said definitively. 

Did he understand the laws of chance _at all_? Fact: they were probably going to die either way, but there was less chance of a single bullet hitting them than running in blindly to pit full of explosives.

“Exactly vhen did you become invulnerable to bombs?” Medic glowered. Heavy’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“I do not understand, am not-“

“My point exactly. Zheir Demo has probably already lay tripvires, mines and traps all over zhat area. Zhe tunnels are furzher but ve vill be covered vonce ve are inside, it is zhe logical route!”

“And how will you outsmart Sniper bullet with no cover?” He sneered defiantly.

“It is zhe lesser of two evils Heavy, trust m-”

It suddenly dawned on him something was missing, the annoying niggling sensation tickling his ears had finally fallen silent... Scout was being quiet, uncharacteristically quiet.

He turned back and saw the boy was still slumped on the floor where he had fallen, but his eyes had rolled back his head, he was growing paler by the second, and his body spasmed like there were ten thousand volts running through him. His mind filled with a thousand curses and he raced to his side to stabilise his head, trying to stop the convulsions bashing his skull repeatedly into the ground.

“He’s gone into full shock!" He said, motioning for the Heavy to aid him. "V e have to get him back to zhe base now!”

It didn't make sense! Scout had been stable a moment ago, he shouldn't have reached this stage of oxygen depravation until he'd bled out...

The tourniquet! The little red band was lying uselessly beside the boy. It had snapped! And now blood was practically pouring from the stump.

_Verdammt!_

Heavy could have easily carried the Scout with a single, giant hand, but instead he hoisted him up into his arms where he was swaddled like a baby. He took one look at the helpless boy and his unyielding features fell with a mother-like concern.

But a particularly thunderous battle cry reminded them that feelings were a luxury they could not afford right now.

“Get to zhe tunnels." Medic commanded. "Raus!”

Without a whisper of his previous argument, Heavy's mountainous figure suddenly rocketed off in the other direction. It almost didn’t seem possible for the usually bumbling bear of a man to run quite that fast, and now Medic had to sprint just to keep pace with him.

“Who else is out on zhe front?” He asked as the gaping mouths of the tunnels finally loomed into view.

“Was both Pyro and Soldier.” Heavy heaved, visibly clutching the Scout tighter to his chest. “ _Was_."

"Vhat do you me-" Something whipped at the air in front of Medics face, followed shortly by a heart-stopping crack. 

RED Sniper had spotted them.

Neither of them wasted any more energy on words. Every last reserve they had was spent sprinting to the base of the tunnels and out of the enemy Snipers line of fire. 

The moment they managed to scramble behind decent cover Heavy, gasping for air and slick with sweat, wordlessly threw him a gritty ‘ _told you so’_ look.

If looks could have killed, the glare Medic fixed on Heavy would have slain him on the spot.

* * *

Heavy was no Doctor, but even he didn’t need a degree in medicine to tell that the little man barely breathing in his arms didn’t have long before he joined what was left of the Pyro and the Soldier on the battlefield.

That image was going to haunt him for weeks. He could almost see himself, bellowing uselessly for the others to hold the point as the barrage of RED bombs hailed down to greet them. But how was he to know flanking from the north side left them exposed from above? He wasn't an offence class, and he'd never once had to lead an attack on a point! He'd been trained to cover his team with a steady stream of firepower and destroy anything that broke through the ranks, non of this negotiating strike patterns or predicting the formation of enemy movement!

But the others had taken one look at him when they arrived and elected him before he'd even had a chance to object. Even Medic had voiced his concerns about their choice, but he was dismissed immediately by the Scout and, after an exchange of several racially motivated slurs, had given up and retreated back to the infirmary with numerous doors slamming behind him.

God knows he'd tried to change their minds; Scout _had_ offered to take command, but failed to come up with any kind of strategy aside from 'bashin' their heads in till they can't bleed no more'. The Pyro seemed to have initiative, but no-one could even vaguely tell what he was saying through the gasmask he refused to remove. As for the Soldier, he was _more_ than insistent that they needed a leader who knew the layout of the territory from experience, to the point that his exaggerated excuse came to reveal the fear lurking behind his motive.

Heavy had seen it a dozen times before; Men signing up to fight purely for the money, entirely unprepared for the hell that this kind of war relentlessly unleashed, and ultimately giving into a fear that they could not be brought back from.

So he's had no choice but to give it his best shot. He's tried his hardest, done what they wanted him to and led the way.

But in practice, when the time came, they really hadn’t stood a chance. The once boisterous scout, now dangling limply in his arms, was proof of that alone. 

_No!_  He wasn’t going to let this one sit one his conscious with Pyro, Soldier, and the countless others he had failed to protect over the time he had been here. Not this one! Not this time!

With the thought clear in his mind he skidded down to the base of the yawning tunnel entrance and spared no time rushing inside.

“Doktor?” he called back. 

“Ja, I am still here. Keep moving!” Came the curt reply. There was his one saving grace, at least he still had Medic, of that he was glad. Although with the poisonous looks the doctor had thrown him before, he wasn’t too sure how glad Medic was to have him.

Through the dark he scrambled over the curved bed of the concrete tube and headed for the halo of light circling its end. He stumbled momentarily, eliciting a faint moan from the man in his arms. It wasn't exactly a response he'd have liked to hear, but at least it told him he was still alive. 

And then came the howls.  

The dark resonance of war cries tinted with manic laughter spurred Heavy on more than any whip could have. Small spaces of any kind unnerved him at the best of times, and the tunnels always seemed to close in around his shoulders and trap him like a giant rat in a tiny tube. But now, with the added threat of being in someone’s clear line of fire with no-where in the concrete tube to turn, it was safe to say the tube suddenly felt a whole lot smaller.

They just managed to reach the bases drainage room when the snap of the enemies Sniper rifle locking finally followed them to their mark.

His anxiety finally got the better of him.

“Doktor! Hit lockdown!” He ordered. 

“Lockdown? But zhe ozzers-“

A shot struck the metal of the tube just above them and scattered off somewhere into the room.  

“NOW DOKTOR.” He bellowed. 

Medic didn’t dare to question him again. The moment they stepped into the weakly lit room Medic whipped round and punched a large red button planted on the wall.

It activated so fast Heavy couldn’t’ t tell if the bulbs gave out before or after the shutter slammed down. With a deafening boom, three feet of metal suddenly separated them from the RED’s inside the tunnel, and from the sounds of the shots pinging uselessly from the other side it hadn’t been a moment too soon.

His lungs were on fire, his heart about to explode, but finally they were safe.

“Schveinhund!” Medic panted, bent over double to catch his breath. In the pitch-black belly came the reverberation of a dozen similar snaps of shutters, each one barring down another entrance to the base. “ _Now_ how vill zhe ozzers get back!?”

“No others, Doktor." He wheezed. "Ambushed at point, no survivors. Even Sasha...” He flinched at the memory of his precious minigun thrown down in the dirt. It shook him to the core. Somehow amidst all the confusion of the ambush he had dropped her to cover his face from the worst of the shrapnel. When he could next look, the RED Heavy had one foot pressed on her barrel and a shotgun pointed at his head. 

_“And they call you Heavy Weapons Guy? HA! Is insult to entire class!”_

He was going to tear the grin right off that ... that _ублюдки_ face if it was the last thing he ever did!  He would pay for making him do that for Sasha, for making him leave her behind...

The whirr of the backup generator rang through the dark, and the room was slowly filled with a dim light flickering from the lightbulb dangling precariously above them. As well as shedding light on their current whereabouts, it also illuminated the look of jaw dropped disbelief fixed on Medics face. He knew instantly he’d made a mistake.

“Bozh of zhem?  _Bozh_ of zhem?!” He had known Medic would react badly to the news, the doctor never had been keen on loosing fresh soldiers to their first battles, which is why he had tried to keep it to himself until it was absolutely necessary to tell him. 

“Da” He grumbled. “Ambush... big, big ambush...”

The Doctor was grinding his teeth so hard Heavy could almost hear them cracking. This wasn’t going to be pretty...

“Vhat is zhe _point_?!” He cried, twisting his hands harshly through his hair. “For all zhe useless, stupid dummkopfs zhey send in day after day all zhey ever do is die in zhe battle! And for _vhat_?” He began to jabber senselessly in an out of German and English. Heavy knew this part well: he was snapping.

“Doktor-”

“All just to fail at taking back a point in zhis Gott forsaken pit of land! Do zhey not even see zhis? Do zhey not learn _anyzhing_ from my reports?”

“Dokt-“

“If zhey do, vhy do zhey insist on flooding us viz offense vhen vhat ve need is support?! I must have tole them zwanzig - nein, zweihundert -nein, _zweitausend_ \- “

“DOKTOR!”

His rant finally ground to a stop and he let out an exasperated sigh.

“Vas ist loss Heavy?”

With the Doctor ranting Heavy hadn't been sure, but in the quiet lull they shared now it became gut wrenchingly obvious.

Scouts faint moans had stopped. The little man in his arms was entirely motionless, even the faint rise and fall of his chest had ceased completely. Heavy cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. “Scout is not breathing!”

All anger dropped from his expression as suddenly as it had risen. Wordlessly he turned and sprinted off through the dingy belly of the base, and heavy followed without question. The infirmary wasn’t far, and in less than a minute of tearing through the various corridors and hallways Heavy was stood in front of set of double doors with the a great, red cross emblazoned on them. The very sight flooded him with hope.

“Will be fine Scout.” He muttered to the pale, worryingly cold young man pressed against his chest. “All will be fine.”

Medic barged through and launched quickly for his supplies. 

“Get him on zhe gurney.”

Heavy lay the limp man down whilst Medic yanked the fridge open and grabbed for a fistful of bags filled with a well-known crimson liquid. He rifled through them madly, throwing several to the ground before finding one his medical prowess deemed suitable. "A positive!" He exclaimed, grabbing a syringe as he rushed back over and, after haphazardly attaching it to the bag, ramming it into the Scouts remaining arm.  

"Come on, come on..." he muttered, glancing back and forth from the syringe to Scouts lifeless face as impatiently as if he were waiting to cross a busy street. But no matter how much blood he pumped into his veins, Scout refused to draw a single breath. 

 

“Nein, he's lost too much blood." He hissed, running back across the theatre and hauling the Cardioscan over to the gurneys side. Heavy hurriedly helped him place a series of sensors on his skin and The Cardioscan buzzed to life, but the little yellow line that should have dancing with a heartbeat only let out a single, monotone hum. "He’s gone into cardiac arrest." Medic stated flatly, flying back across the room and hauling up the defibrillator. Flicking the knobs in what seemed to Heavy like a random pattern, Medic yanked the two pads from the machine and rubbed their little metal plates together until they startled to crackle with static. "Remove his shirt.” 

Heavy fiddled with the tiny buttons trailing down Scouts shirt but couldn’t get his massive fingers to unhook them.  With the snap of electricity getting louder he had no choice but to rip through the buttons and tear the shirt open like it was tissue paper . 

He could buy the Scout another, he reasoned. As soon as he got through this. 

 “Charged at 240. Clear!”

Medic rammed the paddles onto either side of the Scouts bare white chest and loosed the charge. His tiny frame convulsed so sharply it was like it had been struck by lightning! For a moment, the Cardioscan was sent into a hopeful, bleeping spike of activity. Then fell back to its line. 

“No response. Charging to 300. Standby.” He twisted a knob on the defibrillator and the electric drone wailed as it grew in strength. ‘Clear!”

Again the paddles hit the chest. Again the chest convulsed. Again the line danced. Again it fell flat.

“Charging 360... Clear!”

Paddles. Chest. Convulsion. Spike. Line.

“Charging 360... Clear!”

Spike. Line.

“Clear!” He stressed, forcing the paddles so hard they left white indents on his skin. 

“ _Clear_!”

Heavy knew. What was worse, he knew that Doktor knew to. But still he put himself through this, still he went through all these lengths...

“Doktor-“

“Ventricular nodes unresponsive!” He threw the paddles aside and launched forward, placing one hand over the other on Scouts chest and started pumping without restraint.

“Eins, zwei, drei, vier, funf, sechs, sieben...”

Heavy had never seen him this way before.

“...acht, neun, zehn, elf, zwolf,-“

Their Medic was committed, the longest serving member of the BLU team by far.

“Dreizehn, vierzhen, funfzhen-“

...The longest surviving.

“Sechszehn, Siebzehn, achtzhen, neunzehn-“

But in all the months he'd known him, he had never seen him abandoned his judgement before.

Logic was his primary weapon. And right now he was entirely disarmed. 

“Zwanzig!”

He ducked down and fixed his mouth to Scouts, giving him two of his own deepest breaths that filled up the boy’s lungs.

Still the yellow line wouldn’t budge.

He started again.

And again. 

And again.

“Eins, zwei, drie-“ It was painful just to watch.

“Doktor” Heavy murmered, placing a hand across his back.

“Vier, funf... sechs-“ He began to slow, letting the reality of it all sink in.

“Has been nearly twenty minutes." Heavy said softly. "Is gone Doktor.”

“Siben... acht... neun... neun...nein..." The compressions ground to a steady halt. " _Nein_." He muttered, trembling under Heavy's touch. " _Nein_!"  He said again, his hands curling into tight fists over the torso. " _NEIN NEIN **NEIN**_!”

The compressions changed into blows; over and over he brought down his fists onto Scouts lifeless chest, thinking maybe perhaps he could viciously pummel the life back into him. Or more likely, just not thinking at all...

“YOU VEREN’T. SUPPOSED. TO DIE.” He bellowed in between the beats. “YOU. WANTED. AN. _EYEPATCH_.”

“Enough!” Heavy pulled him away from the bloody corpse, pinning his rage stricken form between his hands as he erupted.

“ _DUMMKOPF_!”

The belligerent scream was ripped from the top of his lungs and drawn out for so long that aching, helpless anger grated his voice down to a hoarse whisper.

This had obviously been one loss to many for the man to handle. He could tell, even as the Doctor trembled under his grasp, that he had needed this; for just one of the conscripts to come back alive instead of having to pack what was left of them up into body bags and ship them home. He had needed Scout to live. He had needed just one success...

Hadn't they all?

Medic suddenly sucked in a slow, steady breath and reached up to pinch his brow.

“Time of death,” He shot a look at the wall clock, straightened up and brushed Heavy’s grip off his shoulder like nothing had ever happened. “3.17 pm.”

And just like that his cold, stoic demeanour returned. No one could ever have guessed at that a few moments before his steely composure was marred by a wrath that challenged the fires of hell themselves. It was one of the qualities he admired about Medic, that even in the face of inevitable adversity he somehow held onto his professionalism. No matter the cost.

Tugging at the creases in his coat Medic turned back to the Scout. With his glassy eyes and mouth ajar it almost looked like he was about to burst back into conversation.

But Medic just seemed to look right through him, like he'd only mattered when he'd thought he had a chance of saving him. “Could you put him in zhe morgue wizh zhe ozzers?” He sighed, plucking the silvery string of dog tags from the boys neck. “Collection comes first zhing tomorrow.”

“Da, Doktor. No have to worry. I take care of him from here.”

“Danke. Now I must inform Administration.” And with that he simply turned on his heel and marched out of the Infirmary.

No matter the outcome Medic had never seemed to dwell on the failure of a battle. It was as if he was impervious to the impending mortality that came as a reminder with the Builders League Defeat defeat day after day, no feelings or regret, no reaction to the bodies piling up around them.

He had never seemed to be part of their loosing team.

Until now.

Heavy felt oddly relieved. Through it all, it was almost reassuring to know that, just like the rest of them, he was still, somewhat, human.


	2. Chapter 2

“Unacceptable.”

Even a thousand miles of telephone wire could not hide the disdain etched in the Administrators tone. Her curt retort to his appraisal of the situation was spat so viciously, that Medic wincingly moved the phones receiver away from his ear.

The Briefing room was empty all for the exception of a table and telephone stuck awkwardly in the middle. He had originally assumed that the whole, dimly lit layout was designed for optimal soundproofing, but his theory was flawed by the incessant whir of the generators in the maintenance bay below it, and the chatter that resonated through the halls when the base was full with new recruits. Throwing that theory aside he really had no idea why Administration insisted on contacting them in such a dingy, unprofessional manner. Maybe it was meant to be off putting? Whatever the reason, Medic found it crude. 

“It would appear that the one hundred yards and sixty seven inches gained by the Reliable Excavators sets a new record for ‘Most Land Lost in a Single Encounter’.” She added sarcastically.

Oh to count the ways he _loathed_ this woman.

He cleared his throat and braced himself for the next ear-load of cutting remarks.

“Unfortunately, ve vere left viz very little choice once our attack team vas ambushed at zhe point-“

“I do not care for excuses, Doctor. I want your full report.” The brash demand damn near blew his hearing out.

Trying his best to un-grit his teeth and hide all contempt from his voice, he reeled mechanically through the events of the battle they had so irrefutably lost.

“In order to regain ground lost in zhe previous engagement, our offense and defence classes attempted to utilise a shock tactic, and flank zhe contested control point. It appears however, zhat zhe Reliable Excavations team anticipated zhis, and set up an ambush prior to zheir arrival. Enemy engagement lasted approximately six hours before zhe point vas successfully secured by zhe Reliable Excavations team. Even so, the Sudden Deazh order vas given, and ve vere left wiz no option but to retreat back to zhe base and initiate immediate lockdown.”

“Incorrect.” She barked.  “Your judgement of the situation is flawed.”

 _Deep breaths._ He reasoned calmly, trying not to crush the receiver in his white-knuckle grip. He’d learned that arguing with this dried up bag of old wind was pointless years ago, but that didn’t stop the sting of her remark to his integrity.

“Viz all due respect, you initiated Sudden Deazh in unmitigated circumstances. Ve had no alternative.”

“Article forty five, subsection two point one, paragraph nine under the Code of Conduct managing Private Warfare in the state of New Mexico: domination of contested control points is achieved once _all_ members of the opposing fraction have been removed or eliminated from the point site.”

He knew the exposition dump well, although this time he could see no relevance to the reference at all.

Perhaps she was turning senile? One could only hope.

“As I said Frauline, zhe point vas secured by Reliable Excavations after zhe team vas ambushed-“

“The Pyro was alive.” She interrupted.

_Vhat!?_

He tried adamantly to keep the surprise of this information from knocking his composure, but the disembodied voice of his superior already held the tinge of her well-worn cynicism.

“Reliable Excavations report states that several minutes prior to the timeout, Builder’s League Pyro sustained fatal damage, and was assumed dead on point. In their lapse of judgement they failed to notice the point was still activated as BLU at timeout, under the Pyros hold. In failing to achieve their conditions, Sudden Death was initiated.”

He’d known it. He’d known it ever since he’d first clocked that great, lumbering, useless Russian face. He’d asked him directly about the others! And the reply he got? ‘Ambushed at point, no survivors’. Heavy’s exact words. Words Medic was going to make sure Heavy ate, after he _personally_ fed them to him with his bonesaw!

The Pyro had been alive. A new recruit at the mercy of the RED team on a blood hunt.

If he had been lucky he’d have been shot, skinned, mutilated, then burned.

If he had been very lucky, it would have been in that order.

_Verdammt! Gott Verdammt!_

“I vas... unavare.”

“Clearly.” Came the scornful reply. “In any case the control point is has been reset to a state of neutrality. Reliable Excavations have agreed to a two-day ceasefire in accordance to article twelve, subsection nine of the Conduct Code in the wake of the Sudden Death initiative. Your team will be given this time to recuperate and evaluate warfare tactics.”

_At least zhat gives Heavy some time to write up his last vill and testament, before I throttle zhe schweinhund._

“In light of the loss of both your Soldier and Pyro, I have filed for two more conscripts to be assigned to the Builders League front, this will bring the total of replacements up to one hundred and fifty three-“

“One hundred und fifty four.” He corrected, though he wished he could have been wrong. “Ve require anozher recruit.”

“What?” Came the poisonous hiss, a reply that insinuated there had better be a damned good explanation for such a request.

“Zhe Scout vas fatally vounded just prior to Sudden Deazh initiation. I attempted to revive him numerous times but vas unsuccessful due to medical complications.”

Silence. The most grating reply of all. Through the miles of wires between them he could have sworn he heard her smoke stained teeth grinding down to their gums.

It seemed like a good time to voice his request for support classes, seeing as he could do nothing more to possibly worsen her mood.

“I vould like to take zhis moment to request zhe conscripts furzher assigned to zhis front are of support and defence class. As you can clearly tell from zhe streak of nine – no vait, is it ten?" He quickly tallied up their days of fighting, cross-referencing it with the number of body bags he'd had to use. "Ja, ten consecutive losses ve require more zhan pure firepower.”

 _Vhy do I even bozher?_ He knew for a fact that nothing he said would even dent their iron-clad ignorance of the situation. He was asked day in and day out for a report. Every time he specifically emphasised their need for support over any other class, every time they were flooded with offence, and every time it was always down to him to pick up what was left of them off the field. Without fail.

“If ve are to have any hope of regaining back zhe land, our priority must now be defending vhat ve have left. I hope you can appreciate zhat.”

The line remained dead.

Either the Administrator was so far gone in her anger at them loosing three new conscripts that she hadn’t heard a word he’d said, or, she was so far up her own rear that the words had been blocked by the amount of utter _kuhscheisse_ she was filled with. Assuming the latter, Medic let out an exasperated sigh and went to put the phone back down on the stand.

The cold crackle of her response stopped him in his tracks.

“Elaborate on your appraisal of ‘medical complications.’”

Was this ... concern? The administrator was _concerned_ about the manner of a conscript’s death?

He wasn’t sure if it was just him, or if the briefing room had suddenly dropped several hundred degrees, because it certainly seemed like hell had frozen over.

“Ahh.. vell...” He struggled, trying to organise his thoughts. “By zhe time I managed to get to him he had already lost a significant amount of blood. I calculated zhat zhe right arm vas majorly compromised but even after performing zhe necessary amputation he vent into shock induced cardiac arrest.”

“You attempted revival?” She asked.

“Ja, but despite numerous resuscitation attempts he did not respond. He vas pronounced dead in zhe infirmary ten minutes ago.”

“I see.” She said flatly.

 _Vhat is zhat supposed to mean?_ The turn of the conversation had him entirely perplexed.

“Is zhere somezhing I should be informed of here?” He tested curiously.

“You should be aware Doctor, that this level of incompetency will not be tolerated by the Builders league.”

Medic nearly dropped the receiver. Had he heard right? Had he  _actually_ just heard those words?

“In... Incompetency? _My_ incompetency?!” He almost screamed down the phone, but by some emergency reserve of self restraint he managed to keep it to a belligerent growl.

“That is correct. Your inability to distinguish the critical status of your comrades, or appropriately treat their injuries during battle, has obviously cost the Builders League dearly. As such, your case history will be examined and your current placement evaluated.”

 _Zhis has got to be a joke..._ She always found a way to work through the loopholes and bring the blame back to rest on their shoulders, but to single him out, and attribute their loss to the fact that he couldn’t perform miracles in the middle of a warzone!?

It was insanity! Utter insanity! A concept he had become  _incredibly_ familiar with since working for this party of lunatics!

“You cannot honestly believe zhat my medical ability is at fault here! Need I remind you zhat ve are at _var?!_ Zhere is only so much zhat bandages and medicine will do for vounds zhat leave my patients looking like colanders!” he shouted bitterly, the reserve of his self-restraint finally running dry.

“You would do well to remember your place, _Doctor.”_ There really was no need for her to emphasis the lacking authority of his title, even without it the threat was as clear as the glasses on his face.

“My... apologies.” He muttered, though he never had been one for swallowing back his pride. “I just... cannot believe zhat I am zhe one being reprimanded for events beyond my control.”

“On the contrary. The loss of three conscripts during one engagement, lasting five hours and twenty seven minutes, is a figure the Builders League believes could have been prevented. By _your_ leave.” There was no doubt that she was enjoying this, he could practically hear the smile in the treacherous twist of her voice. “It is therefore concluded that there is an imbalanced effort between the current recruits and the so called ‘value’ of your medical ability.”

Had he not been choked by anger, he would have screamed down the receiver until the speaker on the other end exploded, and taken the rasping bitch with it! With an apathetic sigh she carried on.

“The League take your request, regarding the conscript selection, into account. Should a similar result to today occur after the ceasefire however, we will have no option but to remove you from your current position, and reassign you to a more... stable environment.”

Anyone with half a brain knew what ‘Reassignment’ really meant.

The Mann brothers had spent nearly fifty years at war, they weren't to let their own mercenaries spill top secret beans to the enemy the moment they had outlived their usefulness! He’d learned from reports hidden away in the backlogs that ‘Reassignment’, as they called it, was actually a large red stamp in your report that attested to a host of mental deficits; PTSD, Schizophrenia, Insomnia, Triskaidekaphobia, Foreign Accent Syndrome, anything they could get away with to make you look madder than a dummkopf on dummkopfest.

It was a one-way ticket that sent even the deadliest mercenaries kicking and screaming to the state asylum.

He knew full well that those detained there were never released of their own free will; they were either kept long enough that they eventually did loose their minds, or were wheeled out with a lobotomy addled brain in tow, and a lifetime ahead consisting mainly of meals that could be consumed through a straw.

Had he known this before jumping the metaphorical gun, and signing his life away to serve as a battle medic for Blutarch Mann, the offer would most definitely have lost its 'too good to be true' lustre. Alas, just like all the others, he'd been too impatient to bother with the fine print, a mistake they were all paying dearly for now.

The only way he was ever getting out of the deal he’d made with the devil, was to survive and win. Unfortunately, the latter part of his plan was not quite turning out as he had hoped. 

“Do I make myself clear?” The Administrator asked, seemingly oblivious to his mental turmoil.

“Indubitably.” He growled.

“Good.” She said, pointedly. “Collection will run tomorrow as usual. I will arrange for three conscripts to be deposited at the Builders League base. Is anything else you wish to add to your report Doctor?’

 _Zhat you are clearly and irrevocably insane, to zhink zhat blaming me vill justify your loss of zhis var?_ He toyed with the idea of giving his thoughts a voice, just as his thumb brushed over the dog tags he had clenched in his pocket.

The memory of the Scouts slack-jawed, bloodstained figure involuntarily needled its way into his forefront of his mind. He couldn’t have been any older than eighteen; a boy in peak physical condition who had better than average odds surviving out there... and this struck at some particularly sensitive nerve still left in his conscience. 

He really, really didn’t want to admit it, but the truth was if he had just been quicker he probably could have saved him. The problem here, aside from the fact that they were all employed to murder and maim their way to victory, was time. 

In the time it took to save one man, four more took their place. 

He _could_ have saved Scout, but saving all of them simply wasn’t feasible.

And now he was expected to, lest he fancied a visit to the state asylum, where they’d stir up his frontal lobes with a fork like they were yesterday’s rations. 

“No.” He grumbled. “Zhat is all.”

The dismissive click of the receiver closed the conversation. He placed the phone down, turned on his heel and left the room, mentally chalked up a ‘to do’ list as he did so.

Firstly he had to go and retrieve what was left of the bodies from the field and bring them back to the morgue.

Then he had to write up the letters of death notifications to the recently deceased’s next of kin’s.

After that he had to have a very specific and probably very extensive ‘talk’ with Heavy, detailing the impact of his moronic sense of ‘dead and alive’ that would probably end in some form of altercation, depending on how long he could hold back his temper for, and what corrosive chemicals he had at his disposal.

And there was something else as well... ah yes, he had to miraculously come up with a method of healing all members of his team, during battle, somewhat instantly, and win the war.

Honestly, there was something about having his life depend on conquering the impossible that put him in a seriously foul mood.

 

\--

 

Heavy had accepted, long ago, that he would never truly be able to tell what Medic was thinking. Just when he thought he had a vague idea of how the Doctor reasoned and controlled his every straight-laced action, something would happen like his sudden, inexplicable outburst in the infirmary before. It was only natural to be partly affected by the death of a teammate, but the Doctors reactions to each loss varied across a spectrum of sheer indifference, all the way up to pure, unadulterated rage.

He pondered to the cause of this particularly emotional meltdown, as he carefully stripped down and cleaned up what was left of the Scouts corpse. Maybe it was something to do with Scouts age? He was young, probably the youngest they’d ever had running around on the front line, and his incessant boisterous chattering never failed to remind him of a hyperactive child. Perhaps he reminded Medic of a family member, a son possibly? A brother?

Unlikely. They couldn’t have been more perfect polar opposites. 

Besides, he wasn’t even sure if Medic had any family. In all the months he had known him, the German had never really started up a conversation that wasn't to do with his work, let alone offered up his personal life for discussion.

He pushed the question to the back of his mind, and finished mopping the last of the blood and dirt from the boys skin. He reached for the body bag.

Gently laying the Scout inside, he made some last adjustments to his hairline before nodding in approval at his efforts.

“Is time to go home.” He whispered tenderly, before tugging at the zip and closing him in to the temporary, synthetic casket. He deserved a better send off, and the Doctor probably could have done a better job at tidying up the ragged stump of his arm, but there was nothing more they could do now. 

He began to push the gurney towards the morgue when the infirmary doors slammed behind him.

Ah, Medic was back from briefing, and in a bad mood no doubt.

“Am almost finished Doctor.” He called out, waiting for the stream of angry German cuss words to turn the air thick with insults.

But Medic didn’t respond.

He shot a look back over his shoulder to find the intrepid man of medicine glowering dangerously at him, his arms filled with what appeared to be charred debris. He moved over to the second gurney and placed his load down, and Heavy’s nose was suddenly assaulted by a vile, noxious stench. He batted the smell away with one giant hand and gagged.

“What _is_ that, Doctor?”

Hardly seeming to have heard him Medic moved methodically over the stinking pile and started to pick through it, straightening out the carbonised remains with sickening cracks, until it slowly began to resemble certain... human features.

With a horrendous sinking realisation, Heavy looked from the burned out bones of the twisted black limbs, to the trademark gasmask of the Pyro, which had melted hideously onto its owner’s skull.

“It is a gift from our RED counterparts.” Medic said flatly, reaching for his bonesaw and cutting through a particularly tough section of the rubber suit, that had formed a now hardy exoskeleton . “He vas fortunate. It vould appear zhey did not bozher to skin him like zhe ozzers. Alzhough zhe accelerant zhey used took care of zhat particular maltreatment for zhem.”

The sight flipped his stomach over and turned it to lead, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the body. It was curled up, like it had been trying to make itself as small as possible to keep the flames at bay, its hands clawing out like its last moments were spent reaching desperately for help that wasn’t there...

_Oh no... oh no no no._

The Pyro had been alive when they set him on fire.

Heavy felt instantly hollow. It was like a plug had been pulled in his feet and everything inside him was draining away.

No! He'd seen him killed at the point! The RED Soldier had shot him point-blank the minute they’d bolted from their cover. He couldn’t have survived that! ... Could he?

“Is not... is not possible-” He warbled absently, only to be silenced by Medics sudden, unforgiving stare.

“You are not to say anozzer vord, until I tell you to.” He snarled, snapping what should have been an arm from its blackened socket.

“First, you are going to help me lay out and examine zhe Pyro’s cause of deazh. Zhen you and I are going to have a little chat about your understanding of alive and dead...” he brought the bonesaw up to his face and waved it emphatically at him. “Wiz _practical_ demonstrations if need be.”

He didn’t need to know what thoughts were going through Medics head now to understand that this was going to be very, very bad.


End file.
